


Dead Fish, Foul Fruit

by bearofverylittlebrain



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Continuation, Explicit Language, F/M, I wasn't kidding i really don't know how to tag, Implied/Referenced Abuse, LSH has gone somewhere again? where?? O_O, Non-Graphic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Post-Canon, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, The Brotherhood Without Banners (ASoIaF), Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, basically a lot of awful language i'm sorry, i literally have no idea how to tag, so has Gendry, so many things could happen guys, sometimes I make stuff up, there are definitely plot holes and geographical inaccuracies in this pls ignore :) :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22784593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearofverylittlebrain/pseuds/bearofverylittlebrain
Summary: You know what's up.(Jaime doesn't.)
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 190
Kudos: 315





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oh lawd it's yet another post-adwd canon continuation. Forgive me, I can't sleep

“You look well, my lady,” said Jaime, untruthfully, to break the silence. She did not respond. “I would say hedge-knightery suits you, only I’ve never met a hedge knight with quite so fierce an aspect.”

It was true; in his experience, hedge knights rarely sported evidence of having braved so much as the pronged end of a cheese fork, let alone actual combat. More often they were simply grubby and poorly shaven, dubiously attired and, almost invariably, ripe-smelling past the point of decency. In this last, at least, Jaime reflected, the wench was not far off.

He spurred Honor abreast of her in order to observe her more closely, a measure that had the added benefit of moving him slightly upwind.

Brienne barely glanced at him. “I am no hedge knight, ser.” Her voice was stiff.

 _Stiffer than usual, and gods know that’s no small feat._ They had been ahorse for the better part of the afternoon, and her refusal to do much more than acknowledge him was beginning to rankle. “My apologies, my lady.” This time, he allowed a slight edge to his tone. “I did not realise I was speaking with Ser Duncan the Tall.”

The look she shot him was bewildered. “That’s not what –” Her mouth closed abruptly. Jaime watched the unspoken words slide back down her thick throat. She looked like a lizard gulping down a particularly large blowfly.

“I know I am no knight, ser, true or otherwise,” she said instead. “There is no need to remind me.”

She dug in her heels and rode away from him.

***

He decided to try again that night, when they made camp in a mossy hollow near the shores of a brook. The air was mild, the sky moonless. He sat in silence for a while and watched Brienne build up the fire.

 _She moves as though half her bones are broken_ , he reflected as she prodded at the logs slowly, grimacing. _And what in seven hells happened to her face_? She’d insisted on keeping ahead of him all day despite the wideness of the track, speaking in monosyllables and parrying his endless barrage of questions with warnings of 'not here' and 'tomorrow'. _T_ _omorrow be damned._ Jaime was heartily sick of silence.

When she sat back at last, he spoke. “I was surprised to see you at Pennytree, my lady.”

She looked up briefly, not quite meeting his gaze. “I was surprised to learn of your whereabouts, ser. I did not expect to find you such a long way from...” She caught herself.

“From the Queen?”

“From King’s Landing. And your s– King.”

“You found me well enough.”

“You weren’t hard to find. Not with your train and banners. Your campaign is the talk of every passerby from here to the Red Fork.”

 _The Red Fork, is it, wench?_ Jaime tucked that one away for later. _All in good time._ There was something strangely delicate about this new Brienne. He thought it best not to push his luck.

“They told me you’d taken Raventree.” She was looking stubbornly at her hands, clasped before the fire.

“Bloodlessly, too, I’ll have you know.”

“So they say. I was –”

“– surprised?”

“Glad.”

“ _And_ surprised.”

Her brow furrowed at that, but she didn’t answer.

“What of Riverrun? Have your travels led you there?” _Has Ser Ryman's minstrel been regaling you with ballads of babes in trebuchets_?

The wench shook her head slowly. The firelight cast shadows deep as gashes across her forehead and around her jaw. _She has grown thin_. It was more obvious in this light. Her eyes seemed overlarge, encircled by bruises, sunken like gemstones in her skull.

“I heard about that,” she said. “When they told me, I thought...”

“Ah, yes. Yet another sacred vow defiled by the Kingslayer.” Jaime’s mouth curled bitterly. “You can’t have been surprised at that. Oathbreaker like me, I have a reputation to uphold.”

She looked at him then, sharply. Her eyes flickered. “If you will insist on reading my thoughts, Ser Jaime, perhaps I ought to leave you to voice them, and save myself the trouble of opening my mouth.”

Jaime smirked. _Progress_ , he thought wryly.

He didn’t know what he expected then, but it wasn’t what came next.

“You broke no oath to Lady Catelyn, ser. You shed no blood, Tully or Stark. You didn’t even take up arms, not in truth. You did the best you could, and more than anyone else could have done. More than I could have done. When I heard, I was…” She swallowed another blowfly. Jaime was sore tempted to complete the thought with something flippant, but he bit his tongue and instead watched her eyes. They were dark in the glow of the fire, almost black, and the expression in them was foreign to him.

 _Or maybe I have simply never seen it on her face before._ A chill of something absurdly like fear prickled his spine.

Perhaps she sensed what he had seen, for she abruptly lowered her eyes and rose to her feet, mumbling something about salt beef in her saddlebags. Jaime sat silent and watched her.

She returned hemp sack in hand and scowling. _She has never looked uglier_ , Jaime thought as she loomed above him, broad freckled face lit starkly from below.

“No wine?”

She shook her head.

“Pity. You look as though you could use it.”

“I don’t partake.”

Jaime snorted. “No. You don’t _partake_.” He held out his hand. Her fingers gave the tiniest flinch as he brushed them with his own.

He tore at a leathery strip with his teeth. It tasted like bark. Brienne held hers limply in one freckled hand and simply looked at it, unmoving. _This will not do at all_. He had not abandoned his train and his duty to sit in sullen silence with this miserable creature for hours on end.

On sudden impulse, Jaime learned forward, snatched a strip from her and, before she could do more than blink, whacked it sharply against her forehead.

She started and gaped up at him, her horsey face slack with surprise. She looked so utterly stupid that Jaime had to laugh. It felt like a relief. A release. It leapt from his chest like a jet of spring water. _Gods. When was the last time I laughed_?

“What did you do that for?”

“I’m testing your reflexes, wench.” He hit her again, this time across the nose. “Months on the road with no one but the occasional would-be raper to try your mettle, I imagine it’d be easy to get complacent.” He paused for a moment, considered. “Besides, Ilyn Payne was a lousy substitute for you. Even if he was easier to look at.”

She frowned. “Ilyn –?”

He didn’t give her the time to puzzle it out. He sprang to his feet, fox-quick, fumbled one-handedly at his belt and had almost managed to loosen his sword in its scabbard before she was towering over him, eyes wide. Jaime’s eyes flickered to where her right hand rested at her hip.

“Come, my lady.” His tone was light. “I have a yen to see you wield that sword I gave you. Judging by the state of you, I’m not convinced you can.”

Something flinched behind her eyes and, just as quickly, went. She shook her head. Her arm dropped to her side. “We are both tired, ser, and we have a ways to ride tomorrow. It is neither the time nor the place.”

He grinned at her. “Afraid of a little midnight sparring, my Maid of Tarth? It is unlike you to quail before a sword.” He fancied her cheeks darkened a shade at that, and his smile grew wider. _One thing hasn’t changed, at least_.

For a moment, he dared to hope. Then she sighed, turned, and walked away without a word.

***

Brienne refused to sleep all through his watch. Jaime kept himself awake with intermittent strolls around the hollow and watched her, a great dark mound rising and falling shallowly in the cold black grass. Her breathing was too controlled, too quiet, and when he roused her, an hour or so later than they had planned, she stirred into wakefulness altogether too quickly.

She relieved him without a word and sat near to where he lay, her silhouette rising like a monolith to his left. From the frozen hunch of her shoulders she could have been a great black gargoyle, glowering in perpetuum at the ground.

Jaime’s eyes were heavy, but he forced himself to keep them open. _Whatever mummer’s farce this is, wench, two can play at it_ , he thought, and rolled onto his side to watch her. She never moved.

She was barely an arm’s length away. Fleetingly, he wondered what she would do if he should touch her.

_Garrotte me with her bootlaces, most like. Stubborn, suspicious wench. When did I last give you cause to mistrust me?_

Bitterness tautened his chest. He gave up, and the darkness took him.

***

When he awoke, soft green sunlight warmed his skin, and Brienne’s eyes were closed. He knew this because she was inches away from him, her face angled slightly towards the sun.

 _Like a flower in spring_ , came the thought, unheralded, and Jaime nearly laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. _Where in seven hells did that come from_? Brienne was like to a flower as he was to Baelor the Blessed.

 _Brienne, warrior maid of Tarth, asleep on the watch like a squire after two cups of ale._ It ought to have been amusing, he knew, but for some reason the knowledge troubled him.

There was a certain detached fascination, though, in seeing her thus unguarded, and Jaime amused himself a moment in regarding her. He could well have imagined her to be rigid, stern and scowling in sleep as she was in waking, but it wasn’t so. Her brow was nearly slack, save for a tiny crease above the bridge of her nose, her mouth open slightly over those ridiculous teeth. One thick arm was flung over her head and her chest rose and fell gently as waves breaking on sand. Her skin was flushed and slightly sweaty from sleep, the great muscles in her shoulders rolled smooth.

 _She looks soft_ , Jaime realised with vague surprise, as something alarmingly akin to tenderness stirred beneath his breastbone. _She looks like a woman_.

Brienne’s arm flopped down from above her head without warning, narrowly avoiding crushing Jaime’s skull. She drew a deep, shuddering breath and released it on a sigh – a distinctly womanly sound – and to his consternation Jaime felt a sudden stirring elsewhere, altogether less comradely in nature.

 _Pull yourself together. When the fever was on you, it was one thing._ He grimaced and turned himself clumsily onto his right side, away from her.

He recalled the broad heavy teats and dark nipples of the woman in Lord Jonos’ tent. _Hildy. Hildy, that was her name._ He found himself wondering whether he ought to have called for her after all. She had certainly seemed willing – bashful and bold at once, shielding herself from his gaze even as she squeezed him through his breeches.

He wondered what it would have been like to fuck her. _Would she moan and scratch at my back like a cat, or would she melt and quiver beneath me as I came inside her? Would she kiss me, after?_ _If I tried to hold her, would she push me away?_

Jaime held his breath for several moments, listening for Brienne’s steady breathing, before moving his left hand to his laces. They were tangled and stiff with dried sweat. His cock jumped beneath his fingers.

It was clumsy and his rhythm was off and his wrist started seizing up halfway, but he worked himself through it to the image of Hildy soft and warm beneath him, worked till he was panting, worked until he groaned.

He spilled into his hand to the sound of crickets and running water, and Brienne’s soft breathing at his back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See previous chapter notes re messy structure etc. Also sorry this is kinda short; I caught myself starting to try to perfect it before I remembered I'm trying to challenge myself TO DO EXACTLY NOT THAT

The third corpse they passed that day drew Jaime to a halt. Brienne was several yards away before she realised he was no longer with her. “Ser,” she called, but Jaime ignored her.

It was hardly the first sight of its kind to confront them -- stripped naked, limbs swollen and face black as a Dornish plum -- but Jaime’s eyes were drawn to the chest, above the jutting ribs, where two black-tipped breasts hung heavy as waterskins. “It would seem Lord Beric has dropped chivalry from his code of honour, my lady.” _If indeed such a thing still exists._

Brienne stayed stubbornly where she was. She had been beyond mortified that morning upon awakening to the sun halfway across the sky and the sight of Jaime reclining, freshly washed, against a tree. “Why did you not wake me?” she had snapped. He’d had a small battalion of deflective barbs at the ready, but the slightly wild look in her eyes, more frightened than angry, had given him pause. 

“You looked like you needed the sleep, my lady,” he had replied instead. “Besides, I fancied a bath, and that brook is rather close for decency.”

“A consideration that did not seem to trouble you last time,” she had shot back, and he’d had no ready answer.

“You don’t seem altogether surprised,” he said now. “I take it this isn’t the first pair of teats our swordswench has encountered hanging from a tree.”

Brienne’s thick lips tightened. She had an especially sickly pallor to her today, Jaime had noted, and heavy bags beneath her eyes. There was a faint sharp smell about her, too, one he didn’t recall from the day before; something akin to meat gone bad. “You know it isn’t.”

 _I do._ Somehow, though, the looming grey trees and the absence of riversong made this time worse. _We were three then. And I still had my hand._ “They lay with lions,” he said out loud, remembering.

“And ended food for crows,” said Brienne.

“Grand words for a hackneyed end. I expect her crime was much the same. Lions make for perilous bedfellows these days, my lady.”

He caught her eye. For a moment, she looked stricken. Then she nodded tersely. “So it would seem. Come, my lord. Let the dead lie.”

 _Or dangle, as the case may be_ , Jaime almost said, but found he lacked the heart. _The air in these woods is poisoned. It cows men to breathe it, and makes the beasts grow bold._

***

It was high afternoon, with the sun beating down hard and the chatter of insects thrumming in the air, when Brienne first swayed in the saddle.

They were passing the remains of an ancient well some way to the left of the wide dusty track. Jaime was some distance behind her, but there was no mistaking it.

“Careful, wench,” he called, tightening Honor’s reins slightly in his left hand. “If you fall, I’m afraid I won’t be catching you. I’ve grown rather protective of my remaining limbs. I’m sure you understand.”

When she made no answer but instead leaned alarmingly to her left, Jaime’s heart skipped a beat. He spurred Honor forward.

“Brienne,” he said, loudly, whereupon she keeled right over. Jaime came abreast of her just in time, and when she fell into him she nearly knocked him off. He yanked hard on the reins and Honor came to an obedient halt, but Brienne’s mare walked on regardless, leaving Jaime to haul her upper body across his knees. _Thrice-damned she-beast weighs as much as a damned anvil._ She slipped, skull knocking against first the saddlehorn and then, with a _thunk_ that he felt all the way to his tailbone, Jaime's forehead. His useless right arm scrabbled at her jerkin. Brienne fell like a sack of stones to the ground.

Cursing and fumbling, Jaime dismounted and knelt beside her in the dirt.

She was not quite dead to the world, but her great blue eyes were glassy and her face very pale. When Jaime pressed two fingers to her throat, the rhythm beneath the skin was faint and uneven. “Brienne.” He pressed his one good hand to her forehead, hissed at the heat. “Wench. Can you hear me?”

The sun was drawing beads of sweat from the back of Jaime's neck. _It’s too bloody hot for this._ He positioned himself as best he could and muscled Brienne roughly over his shoulder. She moaned loudly. _There’s life in the wench yet_.

Brienne’s mare had ambled over into the dark green shade by the well, so Jaime hauled his burden after her. He was panting with exertion by the time he laid her down, the long grass blessedly cool to touch. Honor was still standing where Jaime had left him. He turned Brienne on her side gently as he could before going back to fetch him.

Jaime’s waterskin was half full. He removed his breastplate and jerkin, tore a wide strip from his crimson undershirt, soaked it carefully. He shifted Brienne so that her head rested on his lap and pressed the rag flat to her forehead. She was moving her head fretfully from side to side, lips forming words that never left her mouth.

Jaime planted his back against the cool spotted stone of the well, took Brienne under the armpits and hauled her body backwards towards him, until she was half propped-up between his legs, head lolling against his chest. 

He sat there silently as the shadows shifted and the air grew chill, crimson rag in hand, soaking and pressing, soaking and pressing, reassured by the steadying thud of her heartbeat beneath the pressure of his fingers. He sat until her breathing eased and her head stopped jerking from side to side and he felt the great muscles of her body release and soften against him.

Supporting her head in the crook of his right elbow, Jaime turned her face towards him. Her forehead was cool now, cold sweat sticky beneath his palm, but her cheeks were bloodless still … and there was that smell he’d caught a whiff of earlier, fetid and rank, like a dog’s breath after feasting on a carcass.

He knew where it was coming from now, of course he did, but he had wanted to meddle as little as possible while the fever was on her. Still -- he could not have said why -- he hesitated, the fingers of his left hand toying with the tight linen knot beside her ear, where the bandage was fastened.

He unwrapped her as gently as he could, wincing when the material stuck to her cheek. It peeled away with a soft, moist sound.

The smell was enough to make him gag, but the sight of it was worse. A jagged crater of red and purple flesh extended from just above her jaw to the lower ridge of her cheekbone. The outer edges were shallow and inflamed, but the deep pitted gouge in the middle was what turned Jaime’s stomach. Small puncture wounds ringed it, unevenly spaced, filled with congealed black blood.

Jaime realised he was clenching his teeth hard enough to grind. _A bite, was it, wench?_ The wound was a wide oval, neither the right shape nor size for canine jaws. And there was something else as well -- just below her chin, where the banage had hidden her throat from view, an angry red ridge curved from ear to ear. An obscene mockery of a smile, it seemed to Jaime; it grinned up at him. 

He felt faintly ill. He wanted to hit someone. His left hand cupped Brienne’s good cheek and angled her so he could see her eyes. They were closed, but her brows were drawn tightly as though in pain, and one corner of her mouth twitched, tugging her lips downward.

 _What has happened to you, you reckless woman?_ He tried to smooth the skin between her brows with a thumb, but he couldn't seem to hold it steady and his fingers were rough, so he flattened his palm against her forehead instead. _What have you done, foolish girl?_

He bent his head forward, nose filled with the stench of rotted flesh and the musk of dried sweat, removed his hand and touched his lips to the puckered skin between her eyes. She tasted of salt and sweat and dust, clammy and cold.

He pressed two small words into the skin above her ear, and waited for the moon to rise.

***

It was past midnight when she awoke. He couldn’t be sure exactly when. He looked up from the embers of the fire he'd made and saw her eyes glinting in the dark.

Somehow, he knew to let her move first. It was like staring down a frightened deer, frozen on the point of flight. She sat up slowly, felt her face with her fingers.

“I had no fresh linen on me, I’m afraid,” said Jaime. His voice cut the silence like a knife. “We both know red isn’t your colour, but in the circumstances I hope you’ll forgive me.” He held out the remains of his crumpled undershirt for her to see. His chest was bare beneath his jerkin. Brienne remained silent, one hand by her cheek.

“You’re welcome, wench,” Jaime prompted. “You should know I don’t make a habit of nursing mulish oversized warrior maids. You are the first." He smiled. "Don't let that flatter you, mind. I should have been vexed if you had died before I could get the truth out of you.”

“The truth?” Brienne’s voice was hoarse and thin.

“Yes, wench, the truth. I confess I never thought I’d have to clarify the concept for you.” He shifted closer, watching her eyes. _Sad eyes... but they were always sad. It’s the despair that’s new._ “It would seem this war has left no one unchanged.”

“I told you. A bite--”

“A bite? Spare me. You’ve been savaged.”

"Hardly. _You've_ taken worse wounds."

"Then I suppose you're going to tell me that mark about your neck is testimony to overtight bandaging. Or perhaps an oddly shaped lovebite. Have you acquired any particularly zealous lovers in the time we've been apart, my lady?"

She flushed crimson. “I have not, ser. I tell you I am well.”

“ _You fell from your horse_.”

“I have not been sleeping. I was tired. It will not happen again.”

“I know you’ve not been sleeping, idiot woman. Do you think me thick as a castle wall? I can _smell_ the fever on you. You look like a corpse. You’re not eating. You grimace every time you move. I believe you would fall to pieces were it not for your armour. _Why will you not look at me?”_

She looked at him then, for a long while, not speaking. Her hand moved very slightly. He made his eyes go hard. “You’ll not find your dagger on you. I have it here.” He held it up for her inspection. “Your pretty sword, I have that too. Not that you could wield it now, even against an old cripple. The horses are tethered behind the well; they’re in no hurry." Brienne's eyes were glistening. He tried to remember how it felt not to feel, and smiled. "And nor, as it happens, am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is there such a thing as a Dornish plum, you ask? your guess is as good as - nay, better than - mine
> 
> Honestly, I've been struggling to string two words together on the page these past few months, so seven blessings to you for reading this ramshackle collection of them


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The responses to the first two chapters have been overwhelming. I deeply appreciate every view, bookmark, comment and kudos -- you all are wonderful. <3 P.S. sorry it's so short again, I gotta do things in little bursts otherwise I get overwheeeeelmed

Brienne of Tarth sat silent as a stone.

“By all means, go,” said Jaime. “Be off with you. Go on by yourself or lie here in these godsforsaken woods till you rot, for all I care. I go not one step further at your side until you open that great useless mouth and _talk_.”

 _Curse the wench,_ Jaime thought savagely. _The Stranger take her, the Stranger take Sansa bloody Stark, and the Stranger take those thrice-damned eyes._ In the near-darkness they were large and very bright, and silver spots shivered inside them.

They held the silence like a spiderweb between them.

“Very well, Ser Jaime,” said the Maid of Tarth, very solemnly, not stirring. “What is it you wish to know?” 

Her stillness unsettled him, but he made himself persist. “Shall we start with the obvious?” He tapped his own cheek with the fingers of his golden hand. “Out with it. And don’t be niggardly. I’ll have details, wench, if you please.”

Glowering silence followed. He allowed it to settle.

“It wasn’t the Hound,” said Brienne, unprompted.

“No,” said Jaime. “I didn’t think it was. Have you come across him, then?”

“No. He’s dead.”

That took Jaime aback. “Dead?” he said blankly. “How do you know?”

“I had it from the man who buried him. A brother on the Quiet Isle. He found him dying on the banks of the Trident. He said he pitied him, in the end. He said that I would have, too, if I had seen him.” She drew her back straight and fixed her gaze on a spot between her toes. When she spoke again, her voice was small. “It was Biter.”

Jaime swore loudly. Brienne’s mouth twitched. “Rorge was there too. I fought him first.”

 _Gods be good._ “ _First?_ How many were there?”

“There were seven in the yard.” Her homely face got stubborn. “They were going to _rape_ her. Rorge threatened to cut off my legs and make me watch.”

“Going to rape _whom?_ ” Something very painful was going on inside Jaime’s head. “Where did this happen?”

Brienne sighed. “The crossroads inn. They were children, Jaime. Orphans. Willow had the crossbow, she was trying to protect the little ones, but they would have raped her and killed her, and they were _seven_. I had no choice.”

“No choice?” _She should have died. She should be dead._ “You had no _chance_ , Brienne.”

She scowled at him without meeting his eyes. “I have faced odds nearly as bad. I had to. Any knight--”

“ _‘Any knight’_?” His laugh rang harsh and scornful. “I thought we’d agreed to stop deluding ourselves.”

“I couldn’t have--”

“That’s where you’re wrong, wench. You _could_ have.”

“I _wouldn’t_ , then,” said the Maid of Tarth. Her eyes, raised to his at last, were fierce. “Will you ask me to apologise for it? The beast who wore the Hound’s helm raped a twelve-year-old girl at Saltpans. He wore his armour as he did it, and she died. Another woman bled to death after Biter savaged her breasts. I will not apologise for sparing those children what horror and what grief I could, ser. I will not.”

 _And your grief, my lady? Who was there to spare you yours?_ Beneath her makeshift bandage, Jaime could see the hollow, the size of a child’s fist, where the flesh had been torn away. His phantom fingers twitched.

“I killed Rorge, Jaime,” Brienne was saying. “I did. The monster that crushed that little girl, I killed him with Oathkeeper. You… You told me to call it that.”

“I remember.” _The room was bright with sunlight, and you were all in blue_.

“Biter jumped me. R-- Gendry, he speared him through the head. He only bit me twice, in the end. He swallowed the second one, though. I saw him.” She was avoiding his gaze again. Again, silence fell.

 _You should have gouged his eyes out of his head,_ Jaime wanted to say. He felt angry with her, though he could not have said why. _You should have splintered his skull in two. You should never have been there. He should never have been able to touch you._

“Who’s Gendry?” he asked instead.

“A blacksmith. Just a boy, in truth. He… was working at the inn.”

“A green-eared blacksmith working at an inn full of orphans? Where is he now?”

“At the inn. With the orphans. Working.”

“Wonders never cease. And the other five?”

Brienne blinked. “Who?”

 _“‘There were seven,’”_ he reminded her. “Am I to take it you dispatched them all with your life’s blood still gushing from your cheek? Were they Bloody Mummers all?”

She grimaced, shook her head. “No. I don’t know who they were or where they went. I fai—I lost consciousness.”

“You _fainted_ , you mean to say. Why should that shame you? I fainted when I lost my hand, and I cannot even claim the title of maiden. Frankly, I’m a little relieved you’re capable of the thing; I thought perhaps it lay beyond the bounds of your womanly repertory. I shouldn’t have guessed otherwise till this afternoon.”

That earned him a proper scowl at long last, eyes and all. So familiar and so strangely comforting was the sight, despite the changes illness and injury had wrought, that even through his irritation Jaime had to smile.

Brienne’s scowl only deepened. Encouraged, he pressed his advantage. “What of that mark about your neck? Come, wench, I must have the whole tale; else I shall be forced to conjecture.”

He fancied he could see the cogs grinding behind her eyes. _I might be tempted to laugh, were I not at this point rather more inclined to scream_. “Shall I assume that you wearied of your quest and went in search of a nice sturdy tree? I’m surprised you managed to find one still unoccupied. Or tall enough.”

A bolt of pain flashed across her face and Jaime felt a stab of remorse, but he pushed it down. “I've never enjoyed talking to myself, wench,” he continued. “That is my brother's domain. Doubtless his thoughts are endlessly scintillating, schemes of regicide and patricide not discounted, but I find mine own tend to wear on me after a--”

“It was outlaws.”

The admission came so suddenly after her prolonged silence that Jaime was momentarily lost for words. “Ah,” he said.

“Broken men. They hanged me for a lion.”

Jaime winced. At his side, Oathkeeper’s pommel glimmered golden in the firelight. “I see. Beric Dondarrion? Or--?”

“No. Dondarrion is gone.”

“Is he? I confess I have heard conflicting reports.”

“So had I, but they may now be put to rest. He is dead.”

“Shall we place bets on how long for?”

Brienne frowned. “You jape, my lord.”

“Yes, my lady. Well observed. It is a useful talent, sadly not shared by all.”

“So is the ability to keep one’s mouth shut and one’s ears open.”

“ _Rude_ wench, you wound me. I had almost forgotten what sour company you were.”

“If I am sour, ser, it is because I have reason to be. And mockery is no substitute for wit.”

“Respectfully, I disagree. Wit relies upon its opponent for nourishment, and will grow thin when scantly fed. I am only making use of the sorry fare presented me.”

“Do you _want_ to hear what I have to say or not?” He had riled her up now; her voice cracked like a whip. Her back was ramrod straight, her eyes gleaming. Jaime allowed himself to smile. _There she is again._ Here was the woman who had propelled boulders from a clifftop, who had bitten off Vargo Hoat's ear and battled a bear with a tourney sword. Jaime found that he liked the way her face reddened in her ferocity. It reminded him of how she had looked that day when she had fought him -- red from her fury, red from exertion; red from embarrassment, like a bride at her bedding. _Red from the blood, too,_ he remembered suddenly. _From where I cut her._ He remembered watching the wetness bloom, dark on her inner thigh.

Whatever retort he had planned had gotten lost en route to his mouth -- but it didn’t matter, because Brienne was not waiting for it.

“I _did_ find her,” she said bluntly. “I found her with the outlaws who hanged me. I told her of my quest, entreated her on behalf of… of the woman to whom we both swore oaths. I entreated her on _your_ behalf. But she trusted me not, and bade me prove myself.”

She had not looked away from him. Her gaze was defiant, but there was something frantic in it as well, something wild. _Call me a liar,_ those eyes were saying. _I dare you_. “You are frustrated with me, Ser Jaime. I understand. I tell you so little only because I _cannot_ tell you more, and I _cannot_ tell you why; the trees in this place have ears as well as arms. Do you imagine we have passed unseen thus far?

“I can tell you only that I have seen things in these woods that I never imagined, nor wished to see. And whatever you may-- However things may appear…” Her courage seemed to falter; she clenched her jaw, shook her head.

“I owe you my life, ser; my life, and other things perhaps more precious to me. I would not cause you harm. I swear it by the sword you gave me. I swear it on my mother’s grave beneath the barrows of Evenfall. I swear it on her firstborn son, my brother, who lies at rest beside her. You trusted in me once, or I believe you did; I would have you trust in me again. I would have you--”

Abruptly, she dropped her head, as though its weight was of a sudden too great. She brought her elbows to her knees and hid her face in her hands. The great knuckles in her fingers showed stark white beneath the skin. When next she spoke, her voice was softer and a deal less steady.

“I will not demand it of you, not if you do not wish to give it. But I would ask… I would have your faith again, Jaime.” He realised that she was crying, tears soaking silently into the blood-red fabric at her chin. “It is all I would ever have of you.”

 _All_ , thought Jaime. Inexplicably, he thought of his father, smiling as he rotted and smelling of the grave; he thought of Cersei, beautiful and passionate in the dim light of the inn, promising him everything.

Brienne was quiet. Jaime looked up and met her eyes. “Then, my lady, you shall have it.” He gave her the barest hint of a smile. “On my honour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putting myself in Brienne's shoes has been harrowing. She must be aware that she is likely being followed; if she speaks openly to Jaime, will her betrayal be reported and the hostages killed? If she somehow DOES manage to subtly tell Jaime the truth, will he leave? If she just tells him just enough of a white lie to get him to trust her, will whoever is following them give her the benefit of the doubt? If she even puts Jaime on his guard, will Pod and Hyle be doomed the moment they arrive? If she DOESN'T put him on his guard, will HE be doomed? Not to mention the agony of deceiving him and possibly (definitely) luring him into danger, and the fear of losing his regard forever, and the perceived loss of her own honour and integrity, and what is she even going to DO once they get there, how can she save them all?? AAAARGH it's too much :(


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--heavy, nervous breathing--
> 
> I know it's been a ridiculously long time, and I'm really sorry. Getting back into writing is proving VERY HARD, so every single comment I've received so far has overwhelmed me and warmed my heart fit to burst, and I go back to read them all when I feel sad. Thank you so, so much. (There are still some I have not yet replied to, but I promise that I will!)
> 
> Not gonna lie, I'm VERY anxious to post this. I did not mean to write such a long chapter haha and honestly idk if it even works at all, so I may well come back and edit it down later when my head is clear again -- but I just needed to get it out there now, before it drove me up the bloody wall.
> 
> P.S. Jaime gets hit a lot in this one

He bullied her into letting him take the watch again, and she was so weakened through illness and misery that she only argued for a short while. He suspected she might try to stay awake again, to keep an eye on him. The thought was irritating, but he had decided to be gentle with her. There had been something disturbing in the sight of her tears; he had no wish to beget more of them.

Brienne did sleep, after all. Jaime found himself shifting across to her once or twice, to check that she was still breathing. The third time, he stayed there, where he could hear the faint steady wheeze of her lungs, and when dawn broke and she stirred, she did not comment on finding him there.

The wench was puffy-faced from sleep and still very pale, but seemed otherwise relatively well, and stronger than she had thus far. There was no more swaying in the saddle, at any rate, for which Jaime and his still-aching back were profoundly grateful.

 _A day’s ride_ , she had said, and the delay had made her anxious, though she tried not to show it. He had promised to trust her, he reminded himself, so he kept his face calm and his tone light as they broke their fast; and when she offered to stow his golden hand in her saddlebags, as hers were emptier and his wrist was looking rather raw, he acquiesced without a fight.

They reached the crossroads inn within the hour. The yard was a mess of mud and horseshit, and the shuttered windows were blank and cold.

Jaime glanced sideways at Brienne, who was not quick enough to mask the look of despairing disbelief that flashed across her face. _In this, at least, we are together._ Perhaps the thought should not have been comforting, but it was. _Together in the dark._

He followed her across the yard and dismounted, peering through the open door. Brienne frowned and carried on, walking her mare around towards the stables. 

They rejoined each other in the yard five minutes later. Brienne was still frowning in exactly the same way, so heavily that Jaime suspected the muscles of her face had cramped, holding the creases in place.

“No Rendly, then?”

She shot him an ill-tempered, slightly suspicious look, as though he were being dull on purpose. “Gendry,” she said, “and no. He is gone. The forge is long cold.”

“The first floor is likewise deserted, although I’ve not combed the upstairs rooms. Are we to take it your hero blacksmith has made off with the children?”

“I don’t know,” Brienne muttered, looking past Jaime into the empty house. “I do not understand." 

They did not linger, but departed the inn in silence -- back the way they had come, along the River Road. Brienne did not offer an explanation for this, but she was looking paler than ever and slightly shaken, and Jaime decided not to ask. Every now and then, he glanced over his shoulder at the ancient building, squatting toadlike in the mud. Its upper windows stared after them, dark and dead, unblinking. He was glad when the thickening trees closed behind them, obscuring them from view.

As they went, the silence deepened and the air grew heavier. A queasy sort of pressure seemed to have settled in Jaime's gut since the evening before, and he was beginning to feel slightly suffocated. More to stave off this feeling than anything else, he began to talk. He spoke of Tyrion’s trial, the fate of the Dornish spearman, and the terrible sounds that had since echoed through the bowels of the Keep in the night. He spoke of Qyburn's growing influence, and her lovely blue eyes widened to the size of dragons; but when he came to the night of the Imp’s escape, something in his chest clenched painfully... and Jaime found he could not tell her all. The words surged within him for a terrifying moment, a burgeoning mass of poisoned blood swelling boil-like beneath his skin, but he could not bring himself to lance it. _Not here, not now._ He could not tell her what he had done. 

_And why should I, in any case? Gods know the wench has heard far more than she ought already._ Brienne was allied to the Starks and an enemy to the crown -- an enemy to his sister and his son. And yet...

_And yet._

“I am sorry about your father, Jaime,” Brienne was saying, softly. He hated that softness. What business had she being soft when he, Jaime, Tywin’s firstborn son, could not muster so much as a tear to mourn his passing? _When I helped killed him_ , said the cold voice that lived inside him, in the black space inside his heart. _When I loosed the hand that loosed the bolt that split his bowels in two._

He dismissed her sympathy with an irritable jerk of the head. “Then you are one of the few,” he said. “Lord Tywin did not care overmuch for cultivating love -- not with his smallfolk, not with his bannermen, and certainly not with his children. He was much too busy _protecting the family_ for that. Besides, fear is a much surer guarantee of loyalty, you see. Or so he told me.” It was stupid, but Jaime found he could not look at her. His own cowardice angered him. What did he expect to see in her face? What could he possibly fear to find there?

 _Judgement_ , said the cold voice. _Pity._

_Indifference._

Brienne had allowed the silence to settle, but Jaime knew she was frowning. He fancied he could hear her thoughts churning slowly behind her broad brow, in time with the slow, twisting feeling in his gut.

The words were on his tongue and out of his mouth before he could stop them, almost before he was aware of thinking them. “I am not well equipped for fatherhood, I fear.” 

He felt Brienne glance sideways at him. _She is uncomfortable. Of course she is. Gods be good, why must I tell her these things?_ It was best to let such thoughts remain unspoken, unproven. Untouchable. 

“Do you mean--” She cut herself off, tried again. “Have you… Have you told--?”

“Have I told my remaining children that their entire lives thus far have been founded on a lie? That they are abominations in the sight of gods and men, sinborn bastards unfit to clean the shit from Robert Baratheon’s corpse, let alone sit in his thrice-damned iron chair?” He laughed. “No. I have not.”

“But you want to.”

He looked up and considered her for a long moment, until she lowered her eyes. “It is not a question of what I want,” he said slowly. “They are young, and the truth in the hands of the young may be a dangerous thing.”

“So may a crown,” said Brienne. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the hum of insects and the steady _thudda-thud_ of their horses’ hooves. Jaime was sure the wench was screwing up the courage to say something.

She was. “You do not like to leave His Grace with his mother, ser.” Her voice was very soft.

Jaime smiled ruefully at her. “Truly, wench, we ought to spend less time together. This familiarity of ours begins to grow uncanny." She flushed and opened her mouth, possibly to remind him that her name was _Brienne_ , but he cut her off. “I do not remember a great deal of my own mother, but I remember that my father loved her. And I remember…” _She used to smooth her thumb across my forehead when I cried_. The suddenness and clarity of the thought startled him; he had not remembered that in years. _I can’t have been more than four years old._ He remembered watching Tommen cry, on the steps outside the sept, golden curls askew where his crown had fallen from his head. Cersei had hissed at him, had wrenched him to his feet. _But I was alone with him first. I could have held him then._ The thought was sudden and wild, and frightening. _I should have held him. I had time._

A fly landed on the tip of Honor’s left ear, which flicked irritably and displaced it. Jaime had forgotten what he had been meaning to say. “My lord father’s love bore foul fruit, Brienne, sparingly as it was sown.” He thought of Joffrey. He thought of the Stark boy, and the way his thin arms had fought the air as he fell. “As has mine.”

She seemed to struggle with herself for a moment, then blurted, “Tommen and Myrcella--”

“--are sweet children, and doomed, one way or another -- to peril and silent disgrace, if they never learn the truth; to peril and private shame, if they do. Their parents made sure of that.”

Brienne opened her mouth once or twice, which made her look a bit like a landed fish, but ultimately seemed to decide against pursuing the conversation. Jaime, however, was feeling restless. _Besides, another of her prolonged silences is like to make me scream. The wench thinks far too loudly_. He let her cogitate in peace for a moment or two, and then -- not at all sure what he wanted to talk about, only determined not to be left to the mercy of his own thoughts -- said, “I think that you would like him, my lady.”

The wench had grown accustomed to the quiet already; she jumped in her saddle like a large, nervous rabbit. Jaime chuckled, and she frowned sideways at him. “Who?”

“Our new king,” said Jaime. “Or our new _usurper_ , I suppose, if the title offends you. Tommen _Baratheon_ , first of his name.” He had never said the name out loud before. It felt slightly indecent, somehow, to do so. “His Grace still sucks his thumb when his mother isn’t looking, prefers kittens to catapults, and that old crown is twice the size of his head, but for all that it suits him far better than it ever did his brother. I do believe we’re approaching the ford again, my lady,” he added, because it was true; the River Road was slowly widening before them, the trees to their right growing sparser as they went.

Brienne only grunted and said, “I never met King Joffrey.”

“As to that, wench, I shouldn’t grieve overmuch. The lad was a prize cunt.” Jaime inclined his head at her. “Begging my lady’s pardon. Tommen is nothing like him -- and never will be, gods willing.” _Not if I can help it._ “If it weren’t for my uncle Kevan, I fear we would already have Ser Pounce on the small council, and possibly the whipping boy as well. Of course,” he added, after a short pause, “his mother continues to do her noble best to stamp that sort of thing out of him. Our Queen Regent is nothing if not _thorough_.” _Lancel_ , Jaime thought. _Osmund Kettleblack. Moon Boy._

To his vague surprise, Jaime found that speaking to Brienne in this way, of this boy who was and was not his son, was not uncomfortable as it perhaps ought to have been. There was something light and warm in his recollections of the boy that felt pleasant to share -- and besides, Brienne did not appear to mind; she was looking at him with a strange new expression, a kind of tentative curiosity that awoke something almost childlike in her eyes. 

“I used to have a kitten,” she said then, unexpectedly. “Back on Tarth, when I was small.”

“When _you_ were small?” Jaime grinned. “Surely not. Perhaps you simply adopted quite a little lion by mistake. _Are_ there lions on that glorified pebble of yours? I’ve never asked.”

Brienne snorted like a plough horse, nostrils flaring. “Tarth is not a _pebble_ ,” she said. “And I was not _always_ this tall.”

“I dearly hope not, for your mother’s sake.”

“He was a gift from my brother,” she continued, ignoring him. “He’d found a litter of strays whose mother had died, sheltering in the stables. Hilgar was going to drown them all, but Galladon rescued one.”

A curious thing had happened to Brienne’s face as she spoke. Beneath her freckles, nearly hidden by the bandage encasing her head, a small, shy smile had appeared. It did not make her _comely_ , of course, but nor could Jaime call the sight unpleasant. The blue in her eyes seemed brighter momentarily, and those great horsey teeth looked less unnatural when the corners of her lips twitched upwards instead of down.

 _She has large lips_ , he thought absently, as Brienne smiled. _Too_ large, without a doubt, almost as though recently stung; swollen and flushed with colour like fruit ripe on the vine. _Like the wild plums in the thicket behind the Old Keep, back at the Rock._ “A smile becomes you, my lady,” he told Brienne, whereupon she immediately scowled and turned bright red. “I should not object to seeing one more often.” _In high summer, they would burst at the lightest touch of teeth and fill the mouth with sweetness._ He and Tyrion used to wage plum wars, there amongst the ruins and thorny branches, until they were sticky and scratched from head to toe and the stones were cobbled red.

He had just opened his mouth to ask her whether there were wild plums on Tarth when, some way ahead of them amongst the trees to their left, softly but unmistakeably, a horse whinnied. 

Jaime’s stomach dropped like a stone.

Beside him, Brienne stiffened almost imperceptibly in the saddle, her expression suddenly fixed. Seconds later, ahead and to the right, something moved.

The frail bubble of warmth that had momentarily existed between them evaporated swiftly as it had come, leaving the air sharp and cold. 

Glancing ahead, Jaime saw that they were nearing a sharp incline in the road, flanked at the base by a pair of ancient, weatherbent pines, their roots muffled in thick knee-high scrub. Beyond, the path narrowed as it rose, the line of green to its right receding and thinning abruptly; the one on its left appearing, bog-like, to deepen. Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime saw Brienne’s gaze follow its ascent. _Well,_ he thought grimly, _I suppose a day’s ride had to end at some point_. 

“Wench,” he said in a low voice, as ahead of them the underbrush crackled softly, “do you recall the last time I followed you like a spaniel through the Riverlands? I seem to be making rather a habit of it.” 

Beneath the bandage he had fashioned from his undershirt, Jaime saw the muscular clench of Brienne’s jaw. She grunted, a noise which could have meant anything. “Now that I think of it, mind,” he continued, more quietly, as the incline drew nearer, "I can recall one or two things that I would really rather _not_ \--"

She hissed something out of the corner of her mouth.

“What was that, wench?”

“ _Keep moving and be quiet_ ,” she growled, looking as though she had lockjaw. “ _Not yet._ ”

The mid-morning sun was hot at Jaime’s nape. It shone green through the leaves, red through the torn Lannister silk at Brienne’s chin and gold through her greasy yellow hair. Jaime’s eyes dropped to her hands, enormous and freckled and powerful. Her left fingers were curled loosely about the reins, poised and steady; but as he watched, her right hand trembled. 

Blind instinct hit like a thunderbolt, and Jaime stopped thinking.

He yanked hard on Honor’s reins. 

He heard Brienne’s soft moan of, "Jaime, _no_ ," but he did not care. His heart was in his throat, blood pounding hard in his ears. _Not again_ , it sang, with a kind of numb ferocity. _Never again._ He would fight on the open road, outnumbered and one-handed -- fight and lose and die, if he must, with the wench at his side -- but he would not walk knowingly into an ambush with his tail between his legs. _And neither will she, whatever idiot game she thinks she’s playing_. He would not let her.

Jaime’s sword was in his hand. _The wrong hand_ \-- it had never felt more wrong than it did now, with adrenaline lifting the hairs on the back of his neck -- but it was useless to dwell on that now.

Behind the trees, silence had fallen.

“No, please, carry on,” Jaime called, in what he hoped were ringing tones, and Brienne, who had been moving doggedly onward as though hoping he would come to his senses, turned around and trotted back toward him, looking equal parts thunderous and frightened. “We do love a good ambush, and I daresay you need the practice. I’d tell you what happened to the last whoreson who tried to spring the wench, but that would ruin the surprise.”

“ _Ser_ ,” Brienne hissed as she came abreast of him, one giant hand seizing his shortened arm. She was astonishingly strong, even now. “Ser, _please_ , we cannot, not yet. We must… we must _wait_ , we--"

“No,” said Jaime sharply, and the hand withdrew as though burned. In the trees close ahead, large things were moving again, towards them this time. This time, they made no effort to be quiet. “Draw your sword, wench. Between my left and yours, we’re surely half a man at least. We may even make a decent fight of it, and won’t that be a tale for the songs? _Draw_ , Brienne. 

“You,” he called again, as on either side the crackling of bracken grew louder, “are you rats, to approach crawling on your bellies through the underbrush? We’ve faced wolves, goats and bears, the wench and I -- aye, and archers too; I do not anticipate that vermin will prove much trouble. Come forth, man or beast or whatever the bloody hell you are, if you have half a spine between you. Come forth and face us.”

Their two mounts stood close beside each other, Jaime’s angled left and Brienne’s right. Honor's ears were flicking back and forth, and the mare was huffing softly. Over his shoulder, Jaime saw that the wench had Oathkeeper clutched awkwardly in her left hand.

He leaned in briefly toward her. “If you know who these men might be,” he murmured, “now would be the time to tell me.” The wench shook her head jerkily, saying nothing... and the dark outline of a horse and rider appeared behind the trees.

Jaime sighed. “Very well. Whatever you were planning, it’s too late now. Most like it would not have worked, in any case. Don’t say a word, don’t try anything stupid, and stay close to me. Although if they’re archers, we’ll have to be ready to ch--”

A blurred glint of gold and steel, a violent rush of air; pain split his head in two, and the world was gone.

***

The first thing he was aware of upon waking was a sickening throbbing sensation at his temple, behind his right eye. The second was that he was mounted in front of somebody on a horse, wrists knotted painfully together atop the saddlehorn. The third was the warm weight of an arm slung about his middle and the firm press of somebody’s broad chest at his back. For some reason, it was difficult to breathe.

Then he opened his eyes and realised his head was in a sack.

“You don’t have to keep pointing that thing at us,” said an irritable voice directly into his ear, making his head ring like a bell. “We're long over the river; you cannot fear that we will attempt to swim. Had I intended escape, I would not be here.”

“Quiet, woman,” growled a man’s voice from somewhere ahead of them. “Unless you fancy a gag t’go wi’ that hood.” 

“What is it you fear? Tell me that, at least. He has _one hand_ , and my arm is broken.”

“Aye, and I’ll be breaking t’other if you don’t shut that gaping ‘ole in your face, big bitch.” The second man’s voice, from somewhere close behind, sounded slightly younger. The first speaker fell silent, but her breath continued to come in short, angry gusts, stirring the hairs at the back of Jaime’s neck and making his skin prickle.

There was an urgent, sick feeling in some deep dark pit inside of him, screaming for his attention, but he knew he could not look inside it yet. _If I look there now, it will kill me_. With a tremendous effort of will, he wrenched his thoughts away from that terrible hollow place and into focus. _I have just woken up. I am on a horse_. On a horse, blindfolded and bound, and somebody’s arm was around his waist. _Brienne’s arm. Brienne’s voice._

Brienne.

His head cleared as suddenly as though someone had tipped it upside down and emptied it. 

“Wench,” he croaked, trying out his voice, and felt her jump behind him. The warm weight about his waist vanished instantly. “Jaime?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “Are you all right?”

Jaime snorted. It made his temples throb. “For being recently clocked over the head with a lion-head pommel? Well, my sense of irony remains intact, at least, so the damage cannot be too severe. Although I _do_ seem to have gone blind. Why should you care?”

He had meant to hurl the last at her, had meant it to hurt; but for some reason, the venom would not come. Jaime Lannister felt curiously calm. _I have been betrayed,_ he thought, with a kind of cool fascination. _The wench betrayed me._ In the absence of sight, the thick moist crunch of hooves sounded loud and sharp as glass in his ears. His nostrils were filled with the hot scent of horse and the peculiar sour-and-sweet tang of sweat and festered flesh, mingled. _Did I know she would?_ He could feel the slight tremble of Brienne’s large thighs where they brushed his own. _Did I convince myself that she would not?_

“I’m sorry, Jaime,” she was saying miserably. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want-- But you wouldn’t listen, and I tried to tell you… you were going to do something _stupid_ , you were going to get yourself killed.”

“Was I? I thought that was your job.”

She drew in a sharp breath. He waited. “It isn’t like that. You must believe me.”

“ _Must_ I?” sneered Jaime. _I have had this conversation before_. He pushed the thought aside. “You’re not very good at _sticking_ to your oaths, really, are you? Lord Renly, Lady Catelyn... me. I suppose it was only a matter of time before some other pretty face caught your fancy. Truth be told, I’d have thought Beric a bit _orange_ for your taste -- ah, but he is gone, you said. I suppose that was a lie too?”

“It’s not-- He _is_ dead. I told you true. And I haven’t--”

“ _Did_ you?” Jaime knew he was no longer whispering, but he did not much care. “You’ll forgive me for feeling somewhat sceptical.”

“Keep your voice down and _listen to me_. You promised to trust--”

“Here’s what I don’t understand, Brienne,” he said loudly; white-hot rage had reared within his chest, sudden as a snake. All at once, he could not stand to be touching her. He could not stand the brush of her thighs, the warmth of her breath upon his neck. Had he not been bound, he would have leapt from the horse. “Why could you not simply have had my head off along the road somewhere and had done?”

A sudden, violent hoot of laughter erupted from ahead of them. “Oi, Dick! You ‘ear that? Cunt’s awake, an’ you owe me a groat.”

“Go bugger yourself, Jack,” came the voice from behind. “Don’t got no groats, an’ you bloody well knows it.”

“Ah, don’t be down-’earted, Dick. There’s always a ways, for a sturdy lad as looks to find ‘em. But that’ll keep. Seems we got ourselves a lovers’ quarrel. Here, wench, what’s that you was a-whisperin’ in his ear? Come now, it’s only Dick an’ lucky ol’ Jack t’hear. If it’s sweet nothings, we promise not to laugh.”

“Can’t promise not to feather you twixt the shoulderblades, mind,” said Dick, in a fair sort of voice.

“But we won’t laugh, says Jack, as he’s an honest man. I swear it on me eye.”

“Tell Jack,” said Jaime loudly, ignoring a sharp jab in the ribs from Brienne, “that _honest_ men don’t eavesdrop on private conversation, and if your friend likes his feathers so much, he can bloody well find a nice patch of grass and fuck himself with them.”

The first man chortled. “Hear that, Dick? He’s got a mouth on ‘im.”

“Aye, that he does. Such a pretty mouth, too. Be a shame to get blood on it an’ all.”

“Hush, lad; you’ll make the maiden weep. There’s one’d mourn that pretty tongue of his, I’d wager. Ain’t it so, wench?”

“Is that any way to speak to a lady?” said Jaime.

“I see no lady. Just some big ugly whore in man’s mail. And you’d best shut your 'ole too, Kingslayer, ’less you fancy having t’other hand lopped off and shoved up your arse.”

“The Kingslayer is my prisoner,” said Brienne fiercely. “Touch him and I swear you will wish you had not.”

 _Bold words from a woman blindfolded and half dead_ , thought Jaime, as their captors hooted with laughter.

“Well, lad, that’s put us in our place an’ no mistake.”

“ _Kingslayer_ , is it, now?” It was the younger man, the one called Dick. “What happened to _Jaime, oh Jaime, oh, please, Jaime, ohhh_?”

“Don’t you fret, now, whore. Your precious _Jaime’s_ naught t’fear from us, leastways for the nonce. We’ve orders, see.”

“Aye, we’ve orders,” echoed Dick, as his bow gave a soft _twang_. “An’ we follows ‘em.”

The rest of the journey did not take long. Jaime’s head passed beneath a low-hanging branch -- Brienne nearly flattened him against the saddlehorn as she ducked to avoid it -- and suddenly the air was cool, and the little light filtering through Jaime’s hood vanished. Somebody yanked him roughly from the saddle, but the hand that clutched at his arm to steady him was gentle.

As they stood there, another man joined them, apparently to lead their horses away. A brief but heated argument ensued, in which Brienne insisted stubbornly that her mount come with her, Dick threatened to gag her if she wouldn’t shut up, Brienne said, "I’d like to see you try," and Jack swore loudly and eloquently, conceding that she could keep the bloody thing, but if she tried anything funny, the Kingslayer _would_ lose his other hand -- “an’ if that don’t shut ‘er up, we’ll shove it in ‘er mouth, the buck-toothed bloody mare, and see how well she complains then.”

There was a damp, close feeling in the air, and the scent of cold earth was thick in his nostrils. As they walked -- Brienne was still holding his arm above the elbow as though to guide him, though he was sure she could see no more than he could -- Jaime thought the ground must either be packed earth or muffled stone, for their footsteps made hardly a sound. Even the _clop-clop_ of the mare’s hooves sounded muted. No one spoke.

They turned a corner, and warmth collided with his face like the flat of a blade. Seconds later, a hand seized the peak of his hood and tugged.

They were standing inside the mouth of a vast earthen cave, its far end lost in shadow. A fire burned low before them in the centre of the space, beneath an angry patch of blackened ceiling. Around them, above them, strangely luminous in the deep orange glow, sprawled a network of weirwood roots, woven like pale snakes through the earth. The air smelt of earth and smoke. Here and there around the walls faces shone, their rags almost indistinguishable from the walls: old and young, male and female; but all drawn and thin, all regarding them with wary, hostile eyes.

Beside Jaime, Brienne’s face was ashen, her mare’s lead held tight in her left hand. Her wounded right was still clutching his own. He wrenched it away from her, and she stumbled.

Glancing around, he saw their captors to the left and right. The one with the bow had to be Dick -- weedy, weak-chinned and beardless, with a mop of greasy auburn curls; which made Jack one-eyed and walnut-faced, a rusted pothelm squashed atop his head.

Jack barked a command, and a hollow-eyed shadow peeled itself from one of the walls and disappeared into the dark. Several minutes passed in which no one spoke and Jaime refused to meet Brienne’s eye. Then there were muffled footsteps, followed seconds later by three figures emerging from the gloom. One, the messenger, padded back across to his patch of wall and blended in immediately, too-large eyes glimmering like black beetle shells. The second was a young bearded man in a grubby sheepskin jerkin, with tangled black hair. The third…

Jaime heard Brienne’s sharp intake of breath to his left and barely managed to suppress his own. _Him. Here_. It was not possible. _The wench said he was dead._ Another lie, it seemed. Had no part of her tale been true?

After a few frozen seconds spent scrabbling for control of his senses, however, Jaime knew that something was off. The man approaching through the smoke-blue air was shorter and less powerfully built than Sandor Clegane, although still rather larger than average. His filthy tattered cloak might once have been yellow, but years of wear had faded it, and layers of grime and blood and dust spoke of relentless ill-use; it was now closer to the rancid orange colour of infected urine.

As they approached, the man reached up and lifted the Hound’s snarling helm from his head, revealing a broad, grim face and shaggy black beard. He held out the dog’s head wordlessly, without looking, and a grubby two-legged creature that might have been a boy scrambled forward to take it. Brienne stirred, shifting slightly forward of Jaime so that her great flickering shadow fell over him.

“Would you look at that,” said the man who had, for one mad moment, been the Hound. His voice was harsh and humourless. “The cripple and his whore.”

“An honest whore, though.” The younger man spoke in the rough tones of the north. “So far, anyway.”

“No such thing, Harwin.” Piss Cloak spat, drew his sleeve beneath his nose. “I don’t trust ‘er far as I could throw ‘er, an’ I reckon I could throw an aurochs further.” He stepped closer. He was taller than Jaime, whose wrists were still tied. Brienne stood stiff and taut, feet apart, half shielding him from view. Jaime saw her wounded arm twitch.

Piss Cloak spared a brief glance at Jaime over Brienne’s shoulder and eyed her toe to crown. “Bandage is new,” he said shortly. “Don’t recall as we sent you off wearing Lannister colours. He lend you his smallclothes, whore?”

Beardless Dick sniggered. “Strip him, Lem. See if his cock’s golden as his hand.” He leered at Brienne. “Get one last good fuck in along the road, love? It’s like t’be your last.”

From where he stood, Jaime could not see Brienne’s face, but her great shoulders were stiff as slabs of limestone and she appeared to be tongue-tied. A familiar itching sensation prickled at the end of Jaime’s right arm. 

“We could always give ‘em a minute or two, ‘fore she snicks his head off,” suggested Dick. There was a nasty, hard gleam in the man’s narrow eyes. “Nothing like a good hard ploughin’ t’get the blood good an’ hot. He shove that golden hand up your 'ole, or is it the stump gets you going?”

“You know, archer,” Jaime was saying, before he could stop himself, “you seem to have spent rather a lot of time thinking about my stump. I am almost flattered.” He flashed the man a smile. “Remind me -- what it is they say about men who like arrows? I’m _sure_ there’s something.”

He swerved, but not fast enough; the man’s fist cracked him hard across the jaw. Jaime felt his lip split and just managed not to fall. _Little cunt's stronger than he looks._ He grinned down at him through the blood filling his mouth. “As for the hand,” he continued, “it’s a bloody nuisance, truth be told; you’re welcome to it. Only I won’t be wanting it back after you’re done with--”

The second blow was harder than the first. This time, Jaime thought he heard a tooth crack. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brienne’s hand leap to her hip; without thinking, he shot out his own and grabbed it, yanking it roughly back down.

“You bloody fool, Dick,” snapped Harwin, “the cunt’s goading you. Ignore him. Better yet, gag him.”

“No,” said the man the archer had addressed as Lem, as Jack began to rummage in his pockets. “Make his whore do it.” His eyes flickered over Brienne’s face. “I reckon she don’t need that Lannister rag no more.”

Brienne was silent for a long, quivering moment. Jaime was sure that she was going to refuse. 

She did not. She raised both hands to the silken knot he had fastened beneath her chin and unwrapped her own head, and did not speak, and did not wince. Mangled cheek exposed, she turned to Jaime, but did not meet his eye. She folded the stinking silk carefully so that the worst of the residue was encased, lifted it to his mouth, and gagged him.

“I’ve changed me mind,” Dick muttered, fondling his tatty old bow, when it was done and Brienne had resumed her place between Jaime and Lem. “I say we snick off ‘is head now an’ kick it around like a pig’s bladder.”

“Ah, shut your face, Dick,” said the man called Harwin. “Nobody’s snickin’ off no heads till m'lady gets back. Go back t’your post an’ cool off. Jack, you go with him. Take the horse.”

“No,” said Brienne. It was the first word she had uttered since entering the cave. Her voice was steady, if a little higher-pitched than usual. “My mount stays.”

Dick’s bow _twanged_ softly. The northman glanced sideways at his companion, whose hard black eyes had still not left Brienne. “I reckon,” he said slowly, after a pause, “that _you_ don’t get to set the terms here, whore.” 

“I am _not_ a whore,” said Brienne, anger flaring in her voice. Although Jaime could not see it, he fancied he could almost hear the colour rushing to her face. “I am the Evenstar’s daughter, the last of King Renly’s chosen Seven and sworn sword to the Lady Catelyn, and I have fulfilled my oath. Until I have seen proof that my companions yet live, the horse stays.”

The man who was not the Hound stared hard at her for several seconds. Then he snorted. “ _‘Fulfilled your oath'_ , is it? We’ve a ways to go on that yet, I reckon. Seems to me the cunt’s still got his head attached.” But he gave a short, irritable shrug and motioned to Jack and Dick, who turned and disappeared back the way they had come. Jaime could hear the archer tapping the earthen walls moodily with his bow as he went. _With any luck, he’ll break the damn thing._

Lem rounded on Brienne. “You’ll tie the bloody horse,” he growled, “or I’ll knock the Kingslayer’s nose through the back o’ his skull.” He jerked his head. “Behind you, the old root what sticks out next t’the tunnel. That’s where we do ours.” 

Finally, he turned to address the northman. “You heard the bitch, Harwin. Go fetch the lions. An’ mind the little one don’t bite, or might be it finds itself short another tooth.”

***

The lions, it transpired, were a young man in a bloodied surcoat whose eyes were bruised and puffy and a scrawny dark-haired boy slightly older than Tommen. Both were shackled at the wrists and joined by a hempen rope three feet long secured between them. The older man came first, limping slightly and looking wary. The boy -- who, Jaime noted, was rather heavily gagged -- hung back as far as the rope would let him and glared murderously at Harwin, who ignored him.

The moment they cleared the orange-blue haze in the centre of the room, however, the boy gave a muffled cry and darted forward, seemingly forgetting that he was bound. He barrelled side-on into his fellow prisoner like a tiny cannonball, and the two of them fell sprawling on the ground. The child did not lie still, however, but continued to thrash and kick, stick-thin legs moving so fast he appeared to have at least five of them. He was still shouting, battling his gag, thin voice cracking with the effort. His companion, meanwhile, lay resignedly where he had fallen, wincing every time one of the boy’s flailing feet caught him.

Lem snorted and loped over to assist Harwin, who was attempting -- without enthusiasm -- to intervene. 

Jaime looked at Brienne and saw that her eyes were swimming once more. “Pod,” she called, as the boy continued to fight tooth and nail, “Pod, it’s all right! Don’t fight, let them help you--” But the boy chose that moment to aim a bony ankle at someone’s nose, which _cracked_ ; and a second later, Lem had heaved the boy into the air, pinning his wrists to his chest. The unfortunate second prisoner was wrenched half to his feet. 

“No!” cried Brienne, lunging forwards. “Leave him-- _Podrick, stop fighting! That’s an order!_ ” And suddenly, as though he were a puppet whose strings had been cut, the boy slumped limply in his captor’s arms, his frail chest heaving.

“Put him down,” Brienne said sharply. “You are crushing him.”

Lem shoved the boy roughly to the ground and brought a sleeve to his nose, which was even more crooked than before and rapidly turning blue. “You, cunt,” he barked at the young man, who had been bent violently double again as the child had fallen, “get him up. You, stay there,” he added, as Brienne began to move. She stopped abruptly, scowling.

The young man had hauled the boy called Podrick back to his feet and was attempting ineffectually to support him with an elbow. Harwin, who appeared to have escaped injury but who was breathing hard through his nose, prodded him in the back, and the awkward trio shuffled forward.

Up close, the pair looked even worse. They were both bruised, greasy-haired and extremely pale, faces smothered in a grimy mixture of dirt, blood and -- in the boy’s case -- tears. For some unknown reason, the surcoated young man was glaring very coldly at Jaime, as though the entire affair were somehow his fault.

After a moment, Brienne spoke, very quietly. “I came back for you."

The young man let out a ragged huff of air that could have been a snort or a sob. Podrick looked on the verge of darting forwards again, but his companion applied a cautionary elbow, and the boy contented himself instead by saying, “Mmphur,” in a weak sort of voice.

“That him?” It was the young man in the surcoat, speaking for the first time. The question was accompanied by a jerk of the head in Jaime’s direction.

Brienne nodded.

The man surveyed Jaime for a moment. “Thought he’d be taller,” he grunted.

“Well,” said Lem shortly, giving a nasty-sounding cough and spitting something dark on the ground, “this has been bloody touching. Harwin, take ‘em back. And this time, tie the little shit’s ankles together.”

“Wait,” said Brienne quickly, as Podrick’s eyes widened and the man in the stained white surcoat said, “Give us one bloody moment, will you?” 

“You asked to see ‘em,” said Harwin. “You’ve seen ‘em. Now they go back, till m’lady returns.”

“You would dishonour your oath? You swore to trade them for the Kingslayer.”

“ _We_ didn’t swear nothing, for one thing,” said Lem sharply, “an’ for another, I seem to recall _your_ oath--”

“I came back. My companions have fulfilled their role as hostages. They are of no more use to you, and I demand their immediate release.”

“No.”

But Brienne plunged ahead stubbornly, as only Brienne could. “They will depart on my horse, and your men may escort them blindfolded so they cannot know the way back. Until Podrick and Ser Hyle are safely away, Jaime Lannister is _my_ prisoner, and I will kill any man who dares to touch him.”

The young man, Hyle, was staring at the wench as though she had lost her wits. Jaime couldn’t blame him.

“That so, is it?” The northman appraised Brienne, looking almost amused, but the big man’s face might have been carved from stone.

“Told you before, whore,” he said. “You’re in no position t’make terms.”

There was a long, tense silence. _Leave it_ , Jaime willed her fiercely, as though he could sway her by the force of his thoughts alone. _You stupid bloody ox of a woman, leave it._

“Then let me speak to them alone,” said Brienne.

Harwin snorted. “D’you think us green as summer grass?” He grasped Hyle’s shoulder firmly and pulled him around, then yanked the boy about by the arm. “The lions go back in their cages till m’lady returns. An’ _you'd_ best stop your bloody bleating, an’ be thankful we was patient enough t’wait this long an’ not string ‘em up like onions for good an’ proper.”

Lem, too, it seemed, had had enough. “Stalling’s over, wench,” he growled. “You’ve played your game. Now we take what we’re owed.”

And he stepped forward, reached behind Brienne and seized Jaime by the collar.

Everything happened, then, all at once. Brienne’s great frame tautened like a bow and her stance shifted. A split second later, she had placed both hands upon Lem’s shoulders and tucked her chin; there was a blur of motion and a sickening _crack_ , and the man’s head snapped back. Behind them, Brienne’s mare spooked, snorting and rearing. The big man toppled like a piece on a cyvasse board.

Jaime had barely a heartbeat to appreciate his release, however; even as the big man fell, Brienne’s elbow was swinging. It slammed backwards into Jaime’s chest, sending him crashing to the ground behind her. He felt the violent tug and burn of hempen rope as it was wrenched from the end of his handless arm.

A cold, shivery note of steel, sweeter than birdsong; Oathkeeper blazed red as blood in the firelight.

Up until that moment, the people scattered here and there along the cave walls had been faceless and silent as the earth itself. Now it was as though the naked blade had pierced a bubble in the air; the cave erupted with noise. Bodies surged from the walls and fled, flitting down side tunnels or disappearing into the far gloom.

Jaime had fallen directly into Brienne’s shadow, and her silhouette loomed above him. She was cast, for an instant, in a haze of light and smoke. Gold glinted at her shoulders, and gold shone through her hair, and gold rippled like water down the fullers of her red-black blade. 

Then she lunged. She made a feint at Harwin -- he leapt backwards with a yell and collided with Hyle, who took the opportunity to slam his knee hard into the northman’s groin -- and turned upon the boy, whose bonds parted as though made of spidersilk.

“Mmphur, mm--” said Podrick, but Brienne seized him by the collar one-handed and shoved him bodily in Jaime’s direction. “The horse, Pod!” she bellowed at him, already turning away. “Get to the horse _now!_ ” Jaime, who had been struggling to rise, found himself bowled over a second time. Angrily, he shoved the boy away.

To their right, Brienne let out a yelp.

Jaime’s lungs were empty and his ears were ringing, but he scrambled to his knees again in time to see a great tangled mass of limbs crashing to the ground. Lem, it seemed, had recovered enough to seize the wench by the knees, and the blood-and-gold blade had flown from her hands. 

Podrick gave a muffled yell and made to run back toward her, but Jaime lunged at his legs, and he folded neatly as a newborn foal. Jaime pinned him to the ground, but the boy wriggled one hand free; he reached up, wrenched the gag from his own mouth, screwed up his face and spat into Jaime’s left eye. At the same time, somebody’s foot caught him hard in the side -- once, twice. He rolled, wheezing. Podrick scrambled to his feet.

“ _No!_ ” It was the other one, the young knight. Apparently, Brienne had not reached him in time; he was still tied fast at the wrists. “Don’t be a bloody fool. Try playing the hero and your lady ser dies for nothing. To the horse, now.” 

There was a shocking, ugly noise, like a thick branch splintering, and Brienne _screamed_.

Hyle and Podrick were quite forgotten; Jaime was on his feet again, stumbling forward. Before the fire, the man who was not the Hound was half on top of Brienne, who lay belly-down in the dirt. They _writhed_ together, a monstrous many-humped beast in its death throes. The man had one brawny arm locked beneath her chin... and one knee ground down upon her outstretched right arm.

From the cave entrance came a yell, a bellowing snort and the sound of hooves, but Jaime did not look around to see. The wench was screaming like a wounded horse, her face pressed into the dirt. He tried aiming a kick at Lem’s ugly, snarling head, but it was like attacking a boulder. He needed a weapon.

_I need a sword. Sword, a sword…_

He lifted his eyes, scanning the ground -- and saw it, lying abandoned to his right, just beyond the circle of light. Dark rubine eyes winked bloodily up at him from the pommel. Jaime’s heart leapt. Catlike he turned, darted five feet, reached...

...and, for the second time that day, felt his head split open.

Jaime was almost unaware of hitting the ground. He felt, as though in a dream, two thin, strong arms wrap around his chest, yanking him upright -- _Brienne_ , he thought, and his heart gave a painful thud. He tried to turn… 

_But no, it can’t be. It isn't, it's all wrong_. Brienne’s arms were powerful, not slender; Brienne’s arms were gentle, Brienne’s arms were pale and freckled up past the elbow, clammy and cold after the heat of the water, and Brienne had caught him, and Brienne had betrayed him.

Someone pulled his head back by the hair with vicious force, as though they meant to wrench it from his shoulders. His throat felt suddenly cold.

“Stop!” shrieked a voice in Jaime’s ear -- a young voice, he thought dazedly, high and tight with fear. _A girl’s voice_. “Stop, or I’ll slice ‘im!”

The sounds of fighting stopped immediately, and Jaime felt himself return. He opened his eyes. His head was bent back so far he could see nothing but the shadowy ceiling, but he could hear heavy, ragged breathing and Brienne’s muffled sobs. 

“Stop fightin' him, m’lady, or I swear I’ll slit ‘im ear to ear. I done it before, and t’other bastard deserved it less than 'e does. If you don’t stop, m’lady, I’ll do it.”

There was a heaving silence. Nobody spoke; nobody struggled. 

“Right.” Lem's voice was hoarse and a deal thicker than before. “Get off the floor, Harwin, you bloody girl. Or did the hedge knight knock your balls off?” Close by, someone stumbled to his feet. There was a brief scuffling, followed by a violent _thwack,_ a heavy thud, a groan and a good deal of cursing. Ser Hyle, Jaime surmised, was still here.

He wondered what had become of the boy.

“Here, Jeyne,” said Lem, and the knife at Jaime’s throat vanished. “You take the bitch.” Jaime dropped his eyes from the ceiling, neck aching. His head felt the way his cousin Cleos' had looked after its brief, ill-fated stint as a plough. Unsteadily, he stumbled to his feet. 

Lem was hauling himself from atop Brienne, who lay prone on the floor with her face turned away. She had gone silent now, and very still. It was much worse than the sobbing.

The big man loped toward Jaime with the rolling gait of a wounded boar. His face was fearful to behold; bloodied, bruised and black with anger. His nose, Jaime observed with some satisfaction, appeared to have been smashed sideways into his right cheekbone, where it clung like some hideous growth, oozing pus and wheezing.

For the first time, the man looked at Jaime properly. His eyes were very cold. There was nothing in them but loathing. _This man hates me as he hates Brienne,_ Jaime knew. _He hates Brienne_ because _of me._

“Must like the taste o’ that cunt summat uncommon, Kingslayer,” he said, “if it’s torn you from between your sister’s legs. I wunner you’ve not got a nose like mine an’ all.”

 _And I wonder you’ve still got two ears,_ was what Jaime meant to say; but it came out as, “Mm-wumu-phop-ooemph” -- and, really, he reflected, as the man's large gloved fist came swinging, it was probably for the best.

***

Jaime Lannister awoke to an agonising throb between his ears and the quiet spitting of a fire. He took a breath and got a noseful of dust; coughed violently, and spat. Pain stabbed at his temples.

 _Bound,_ he realised, as he tried to move his legs and found he had no feeling in them. His face was pressed at an odd angle to the ground; he lay there and stared at the dark puddle of spit he had made in the dirt, half expecting, for one frozen moment, to hear the bray of Shagwell’s laughter, to feel capering feet upon his back.

Nothing happened, and Jaime’s breath returned to him. It took a second or two more for his memory to follow.

His view, such as it was, was limited. The little of his surroundings that he could see looked much the same as the cave in which he had just been. In fact, he might have thought he had not moved at all had it not been for the much smaller fire burning several feet away, the tattered blanket laid nearby... and the old man who sat cross-legged upon it.

Dressed in rags too large for him, with dirty grey hair past his shoulders and the bones standing out in his face, he appeared shrunken, like a prune or a dried fig. _Like someone scooped out his insides with a spoon and left him to dry in the sun._

But the husk contained a man. Dull as the rest of him appeared, his eyes were alive -- alive and shrewd, and fixed directly upon Jaime.

It was as though he had been hit over the head again. 

_I know this man_.

“Thoros,” he croaked. “You will forgive me if I do not pronounce us _well met_.”

The gaunt man surveyed him head to hog-tied toe. “We’ve both of us seen more prosperous days, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime nodded, then stopped when his head throbbed. “You had more meat on that carcass of yours the last I saw you, I seem to recall.”

“As did you.” Thoros’ eyes lingered on his stump. “You were also a touch more symmetrical.”

Jaime started to laugh, but that hurt even more than nodding. “You have me there, priest. I’ve lost a piece or two more than you, I will admit it. What say we even out the score? Come, free me from these bonds, return me my sword, and let us see what our losses have made of us.”

Thoros smiled thinly. “Let us not play games, ser. We both know you are no more fit to grip a sword with your left than you are to wear the white.”

“Not that it matters, but I _have_ been told that white suits me; as for swords, the left grips mine well enough, I thank you. Though I confess that after so long on the road, a gentler touch would not be unwelcome. One does begin to feel a certain _ache_. I am sure you are not unfamiliar. You haven’t any women hereabouts, perchance? But, ah...” Jaime smiled at him. “I suppose it is crass of me to discuss such matters with a _holy_ man.”

The ragged man was no longer smiling. Shadows lay deep and sharp across the ridges and hollows of his face. “Aye,” he said harshly. “We have women, Kingslayer. All of whom would sooner drive six inches of steel through your breast than touch your naked skin.”

“ _Ah._ ” Jaime’s sigh ended in a grimace. He closed his eyes. “My prospects continue to dwindle, I fear. And yet…” He hesitated. _Careful, now; tread careful._ “And yet I believe you have had in your company one who has come very close to achieving the one and done more than a little of the other.”

“Oh?” The red priest’s eyes were hard.

“Yes. Perhaps you will know her by description. Ugly wench. Taller than a man and thicker with it. Freckles like birdshit on a boulder. As wenches go, she is difficult to miss. What have you done with her?”

“Brienne of Tarth has been seen to.”

“Seen to? Already? By whom?”

“By me, as she was when she was first brought here.”

“And a commendable job you did, too. I had the honour of dismantling your handiwork myself. Who attends her now?”

“You would not know them.”

“Where have you put her?”

“That is none of your concern, Kingslayer.”

They surveyed one another, eyes hard, across the the space. Thoros had not moved. He sat with his legs crossed beneath him and hands folded in his lap. Jaime’s neck was beginning to ache from craning. He could feel his anger building, hot liquid in his veins.

“There is something that I do not understand, Thoros,” he said conversationally. “Perhaps you will help me. I know the Tarth wench of old, you see. You might say that fate has seen fit in the past to bind us together. I have some understanding of her pig-stubborn nature, and her courage, though often misplaced, is not insignificant.”

“You do not need a soiled white cloak and a golden hand to perceive the truth of that, ser.”

“I am encouraged to hear it, but you will humour my curiosity nonetheless. Tell me, how many times did that piss-coloured son of a whore have to rape her before she broke? Or did the lot of you take it by turns? Had to reattach many ears, have you, Thoros, you shrivelled red cunt?”

Thoros stood so suddenly the flames before him billowed and hissed. His threadbare robes fluttered about his ankles and his eyes blazed.

“The lady Brienne has not been molested. I have not allowed it.”

“No? But you _have_ allowed her to be strung up like a prize ham.” Jaime sneered. “How very chivalrous of you.”

“Do not lecture me on chivalry, Kingslayer. I am not the one who sent a highborn maid questing in war-ravaged woods in the company of a child and a worthless hedge knight. I do not know why you did it. I do not much care. But while you have been lounging in the capital on red silken sheets, buried like a worm between your whore sister’s thighs, this poor smitten child has disposed of your enemies for you, suffered pain and grief and horror for you, thrown herself in the path of death and ruin, for _you_. All this she has done out of some deluded girlish belief that you have somehow _changed_ , that you are _better..._ that you have _honour_. You set a girl child along a path that your father laid, a path _you_ ought to have walked, and now this girl child must reap what you have sown. Think on that, Kingslayer, if you have an unselfish thought to spare.” 

Red were the old priest’s eyes in the firelight; red the tattered hem of his robe. 

“Think on that, and await the Lord’s judgement. In _silence_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are the best.

**Author's Note:**

> Bless you if you read this. Have written almost nothing in years, so this is kind of an exercise to try and discipline myself back into it! I'm trying hard not to fixate on making stuff perfect, so this is super scratchy and has zero structure, but something is better than nothing
> 
> I hope to continue this, but life is a shitstorm at the moment so I make no guarantees.
> 
> 1 kudos = 1 serotonin  
> 1 comment = 142 serotonin (not a precise estimate)


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